


the long road to nowhere

by hockeycaptains, jamesbonds



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Memorial Cup, Sadness, The Looming and Uncertain Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/hockeycaptains, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesbonds/pseuds/jamesbonds
Summary: It’s uncommon for rookies to go straight into the NHL, and Dylan likes to think that he never had any illusions of grandeur.





	the long road to nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the first stop on Nicole’s Farewell (Hockey) Fandom™ tour. We started this fic many moons ago, when we were sad about Dylan Strome and have finally returned to it now, when we are still sad about Dylan Strome. During those months I like to think it has aged like a fine wine, or cheese, just as I’m sure the Coyotes are hoping Dylan’s done this year.
> 
> This roughly follows Dylan’s time with the Otters during the 16-17 season, but is driven more by emotion than fact.

Dylan breaks Connor’s OHL assist record on a Saturday.

His teammates crash into him, and the audience erupts into cheers for Brinksy’s goal, and there’s a very real part of him that lights up. In the post-game, he’ll say he didn’t even realize he was that close to the record. He’ll say it wasn’t on his mind.

It’s the same lie it is any time he promises he’s not comparing himself to his best friend, but it’s never been easy to wear the C for this team without thinking about who wore it before him.

He finishes the game with three assists, just to put the icing on the cake, and can’t wiggle out of it when the team demands they celebrate the win. Taylor’s billet parents are out of town for the weekend, Brinksy is explaining animatedly from around Dylan’s shoulder, and everyone’s heading over to drink some cheap beer and probably make decisions they’ll regret in the morning.

Post-shower, Dylan mostly feels wrung out and exhausted.

It was easier last year, when more of his draft class was still playing in Juniors, but now he can’t help but feel singled out for rejection, and that’s made him that little bit quieter. More focused, his coaches would say, but he’s not sure that’s it. Whatever it is, he’s tired. 

“Alright,” he says finally, after a lot of pestering, “I’ll come.”

The resulting cheers should make him smile, probably. Instead, something hollow twinges in his chest, and he swallows his excuses. He’s the captain of this team now, and that extends to social things, too.

In the Uber he ends up splitting with Jordan, he presses his forehead against the glass and stares at the familiar scenery blurring by. He’s still waiting for the sharp tug of loss in his gut to dissipate the way it did last year into something manageable, something he can use as motivation. For now, he just feels like a square peg that couldn’t fit into a round hole, edges sore and splintered from trying so hard when it seems like he never really had a shot at making the team this year at all.

By the time they finally pull up to the house, Dylan isn’t in the mood to drink.

“Earth to Stromer,” jokes Jordan, nudging him to get out of the car. 

Dylan nods to himself, brusque, just once, and braces against the cold. It’s supposed to rain pretty much the entire coming week, and the clouds look dark and swollen with water.

It was hot in Arizona. Dry, sunny.

He blinks and keeps walking, and then he’s heading inside, and then he’s kicking his shoes off and being handed a beer and shuffled to the middle of the living room.

“To our fearless leader!” proclaims Brinksy once Dylan has entered his line of sight, holding up his own beer. “He’s back, and now he’s a legend!”

“To Stromer!” the group echoes cheerfully, and everyone tips back their bottles and drinks.

Dylan tips back his own, winces at the sourness. This is a headache waiting to happen, but everyone else is still chugging, and if he doesn’t belong here then maybe he doesn’t belong anywhere, so he drinks.

And drinks.

And drinks.

An hour and a half later, he’s lost count of his beers. Usually he’s a happy drunk, carefree and chatty and a little bit clingy. He knows this about himself and he’s come to terms with it. Tonight, though-

Tonight-

“You alright, bud?” asks Brinksy.

Dylan blinks up at him. “I’m gonna go, I think.” He didn’t think he was going to leave early, but it sounds nicer the more he considers it. He stands up from the couch, wobbles on his feet.

Brinksy makes a truly tragic face, eyes not quite glassy but getting there. “We’re celebrating _you_ ,” he argues, “you can’t just _leave_. Not cool, man.”

“I don’t really feel good,” says Dylan, which isn’t a lie.

Brinksy protests again, but Dylan nudges past him without wiping out at all, and makes it outside without further incident.

This time two years ago, Dylan was sitting on the back porch of Connor’s billet house, sharing the swing with Connor himself. They weren’t close yet, but they were getting there--Dylan could already tell Connor was going to be as important to him off the ice as he was on it. Maybe even more.

“I’m glad you’re on the team,” Connor told him, smiling that goofy crooked smile of his. He looked earnest and wide, wide open. It was surprising, considering how airtight Connor was at media, how close he kept his cards to his chest. Dylan was still working on that part of all this.

Dylan smiled back, just a little. “Me too,” he said, and he meant it. The swing creaked beneath them and the sky was swollen with stars. At the end of this year, they’d both be drafted to NHL teams, and for one quiet moment Dylan wasn’t afraid of the pressure of that at all.

It wasn’t raining then. 

It’s raining now.

Dylan tips his head back, lets the water soothe his overheated skin. He still feels sick and wobbly, compounded by how hard it is to shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be here. He tries not to let himself entertain the idea that everything since training camp has been one long, fucked up nightmare he can wake up from, but now, drunk and sad and so, so tired, it’s hard not to hope for the impossible.

The rain soaks through his hoodie, and Dylan swears quietly. He fumbles for his phone, calls an Uber.

Keeps his eyes shut the whole drive back to the hotel.

/

He wakes up feeling a lot older than nineteen, headache pounding insistently at his temples. His hip is still bothering him from hitting the boards awkwardly a couple of days ago during practice, and he allows himself the walk to the bathroom and back to feel utterly, pathetically sorry for himself.

Then he allows himself a few more minutes while eating breakfast downstairs, because that really wasn’t enough.

He hadn’t taken his phone down with him, just wanted to be able to eat in silence without the temptation of checking his twitter mentions or whatever other masochistic shit he could get up to on social media. It’s on his nightstand when he heads back up to grab his bags before morning skate and he flips through the handful of texts that came in last night. There’s one from Brinsky asking if he feels any better, one from his mom telling him to have a good day (and congrats again on last night) and there’s one from Connor that just reads “you beat me” with a winky emoji. 

Dylan had been considering using the drive to practice as additional time to mope, but he really needs to be a little less pathetic, even if his pride does keep getting bruised. 

He knows that Connor meant it as a joke, and a year ago it would have been. A year ago it was okay that he was still in Erie while Connor played for his actual NHL team because Dylan would be up there soon too. A year ago it was okay that he was still doing the same fucking things that Connor had already done. 

It’s uncommon for rookies to go straight into the NHL, and Dylan likes to think that he never had any illusions of grandeur. 

He’s tried so hard the last few days not to be mad at Connor, to not resent him for something that’s out of both of their control. It’s not Connor’s fault that the Oilers picked him to be the next face of their franchise, and it definitely isn’t Connor’s fault that Dylan couldn’t perform where it counted. The text sets his teeth on edge though, the misery that sits low in his stomach starting to burn. What might be a joke for Connor right now is all Dylan currently has. Breaking the records his best friend set two seasons ago has been, humiliatingly, the high point of his month. 

_It shouldn’t even count,_ Dylan thinks, _not when I’ve had so much more time here than him._

By the time he shoves his phone in the side pocket of his duffle, he’s pissed. He’s back in the same town with the same team, the taste of his breakfast going sour at the back of his throat. 

_5 stages of grief or whatever,_ he thinks to himself as he gathers up his practice gear, anger hot in his stomach. It’s maybe a little melodramatic, but Dylan feels like he’s earned that much.

The rest of the morning is quiet. When he gets to the practice rink, he shuts his eyes for a second before he finishes lacing up his skates. The bargaining, the denial, the sadness - he shuts it all down in favor of breathing in the cool, dry, artificial rink air. 

There’s a point at which it all becomes the same. Practices, his friends, dinners with his billet family, even games become a slow but steady march. 

He thinks he’s getting better though. At hockey, sure, but also at dealing with what his life currently is. It helps that there’s something he’s working towards: not just the ever-receding prospect of his actual NHL career, but something tangible. 

It honestly feels like it’s his year. He thinks so, and so does his team, the media, Twitter (which he’s technically forbidden from reading, though it hasn’t fully stopped him) - even Connor. They’re pushing through teams in their division, not winning everything, but certainly doing well enough to not have to worry about their playoff spot. 

Brinksy seems to be hovering one step behind him the entire time, though, like he thinks Dylan is somehow fragile even in the face of all of this possibility. 

“I’m fine, you know,” Dylan tells him one night when they’re a few beers deep and a few games into NHL ‘14. He doesn’t look up from his controller. 

“What?” Alex says, distractedly. 

“You can stop,” he waves his hand vaguely, “like, looking at me like I’m something you’re gonna have to fix.” 

“I don’t- Dylan,” Brinksy starts, taking a moment to pause the game and turn towards him on the couch. He sounds sad, not angry, and that just makes this harder.

Dylan tries not to meet Brinksy's eyes, although he’s making it pretty difficult, determined gaze hot on the side of Dylan’s face. Dylan didn’t come emotionally prepared for a videogames-less conversation, but he puts down the controller. 

“This shit can get hard,” Brinksy tries again. “I’m just trying to be your friend. I know this isn’t really where you want to be. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re the only one dealing with shit.” 

Dylan doesn’t know what to say to that, hasn’t thought before that he might be doing a good job holding it together as a captain, but a bad job as a friend. 

“‘Kay,” he says, flicking the game off pause. “I’m fine, anyway. You can chill.”

The ensuing pause is disbelieving, but Alex has never been one to stir things up. Sure enough, he lets it go. Dylan would feel bad for knowing what he can get away with if everyone else didn’t make it so easy all the time.

/ 

They win the fucking OHL playoffs. They actually win the damn thing, and it isn’t an accident or a miracle or a hail mary. They _earned_ this, and the satisfaction of this victory is bone deep. Dylan knows they’re not done, but for a moment he feels like he’s floating, clutching his teammates on the ice. 

He so desperately wants this to be enough, to be okay with the fact that they made it farther than last year, that he’s getting better, that he’s one of (if not the) best at this level. He’s got the accolades to prove it, even if they feel hollow in all the ways that count.

When Connor calls that night, Dylan’s still riding the adrenaline high and trying desperately not to crash.

“Man, I wish I could’ve been there,” Connor is saying, and he sounds like he’s smiling. “What a fucking win.”

“Yeah,” agrees Dylan, because _honestly I’m glad I did this without you_ would be rude and uncalled for, not to mention being an oversimplification.

“I think I’m gonna try and come catch some of the Mem,” Connor continues, and Dylan’s heart sinks a little. There was a time when this thing between them was blessedly uncomplicated, but these days Dylan feels like he’s being pulled in a thousand different directions, and none of it’s easy.

“Oh, cool!” Sounding genuine is an uphill battle. The longer this conversation drags on, the more he can feel the adrenaline seeping out, and a bone-deep exhaustion replacing it. “Text me your details when you have them, I’d love to see you.” 

Connor laughs at that. “Of course dude! You’re most of the reason I’m coming anyway.” 

They keep talking for a bit, but Dylan’s head is buzzing and there’s a growing pressure behind his eyes. He’s supposed to be meeting up with the team in a few anyway.

His excuses are flimsy at best, but Connor doesn’t seem to notice anything off, and they say their goodbyes. 

Connor hangs up before Dylan can, and he sits there for a second before he puts the phone down. He hasn’t shared a room outside of a road game in years, but it still feels too empty and quiet where he’s sitting on his bed, if by empty and quiet he means lonely, if by lonely he means a little lost and a lot unsure of what comes next. Staring at the wall doesn’t give him any answers in the same way that winning hockey games hasn’t, the unease running deeper than something he can prove or disprove just by trying hard enough. He wonders how many times that lesson will have to drive itself home before he catches a break. It makes the room feel too small, his chest too tight.

Eventually, his phone chirps at him, battery low, and the moment is broken. He goes to sleep.

/

The next few days are a blur of preparations for the real final, traveling and then settling into a routine of practice, game tape, interviews, practice, scouting report, sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat until Dylan feels a little less like a kid way out of his depth and a little more like a captain ready to lead his team to victory.

He’s been dealt a lot of losing the past few years, but Dylan’s always prided himself in being a gracious winner, and he’ll take every chance to prove himself he can get. In that home arena, with the music blasting as his family crashed the ice? Raising the trophy over his head, trying to yell over the sound of his own heartbeat, the way it crashed in his ears, that heavy, thrilled pulse?

Yeah, he thinks. He could stand to do that again.

/

The game feels simultaneously visceral and clinical, like part of Dylan is rooted in the ice and another part is floating above it all. He can taste the cold air, feel the push of his skates but at the same time he’s constantly analyzing and noticing, trying to find a way to force the pieces to fit in a way that makes sense. 

First period: Windsor scores, Erie responds. It’s Dylan’s goal, but that won’t matter until the game is won.

Second period: Erie scores, Windsor responds. Erie scores again, Windsor responds again. It’s like a tennis match. Penalty after penalty push the advantage from one side to the other. Every faceoff Dylan takes has him sweating. He wins most of them.

Third period: Windsor scores. Dylan loses the last faceoff of the playoffs, and that’s it, that’s the game.

The whistle blares.

The Windsor Spitfires win, final score 4-3, and the C on Dylan’s chest is heavy.

/

This time, the confetti isn’t for them.

Dylan’s feet feel numb in his skates as he drops to his knees, energy leaving him all at once. This isn’t how this was supposed to end. And this is the familiar feeling- last season’s bitter exit, and staying down, and the silver medal he was given in his Canada sweater courtesy of a shootout in a dizzyingly similar ping pong match of a game-

Nothing is guaranteed in hockey, it’s something every kid has learned by their done with their first season. It’s something Dylan thinks he might still be learning for the rest of his life. 

The condolences he gets are hard to hear over his own heartbeat, still coming down from the rush of the game, but they’re impossible to ignore. The lights, too, reflect off of the ice and demand attention, as does the music, the Spitfires celebration, the inevitable clamoring of the press in both locker rooms. 

Dylan would like to sit down, or lie down, or do something so that all of this just stops. There’s confetti in his hair, and the sour taste of bile in the back of his throat. There’s a solid ten seconds where Dylan considers skipping interviews altogether before he reminds himself that this is what he does, what they all do. If he ever makes it, it sure as hell won’t get easier.

He knows that everyone will tell him he tried his best, that he did what he could, and that what he did was good, but it clearly wasn’t enough.

Maybe that’s just the way this story goes.

///

_WINDSOR, Ont. — Otters captain Dylan Strome didn’t take much comfort in winning the Memorial Cup’s MVP award after losing the final to the Windsor Spitfires on Sunday. That’s not the trophy he set out to win. "It’s an honour, but no one cares about the MVP trophy," said Strome. "Credit to them, but yeah, it’s unfortunate that it comes down to something like this where it’s just one game."_

_“I just wish we had come out on top,” said Strome, who was named the tournament’s most valuable player with seven goals and 11 points, but wished he could have contributed one more._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For a glimpse into our creative process & friendship in general:
> 
>  
> 
> _[should connor text him something nice but devastating?] "hey bro, love ya! by the way you'll never be me B) catch ya l8r" like that?_
> 
>  
> 
> (More outtakes, which are surprisingly funny for such a deeply sad fic, can be found [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16SfdHc46xEbZOyDcVsjE7MtoOdQezEAvzvexOsgmF0Q/edit?usp=sharing))
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


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